


Oscar Night

by bluebirdfiction



Category: Australian Actor RPF
Genre: F/F, Forbidden Love, Lesbian Character, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 12:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21118583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdfiction/pseuds/bluebirdfiction
Summary: OFC reunites with Cate Blanchett at an awards show, rekindling an old flame.





	Oscar Night

**Author's Note:**

> made up a fictional husband for Cate. might update later.

“How much longer?”

”I just need to clean up your eyebrows, and then you’ll be done. Five minutes, I promise,” Mariah says, leaning in with a brush to finish her masterpiece.

I’m relieved. I’ve been sitting in the same chair for hours, listening to the latest audiobook from my favorite crime writer with my eyes closed. It’s a riveting story, but after half a day, even a National Book Award winner grows boring. I sat patiently while they painted my nails, washed, dried, and styled my hair, and buffed my face with what seemed like hundreds of brushes.

Now I can’t wait to see the final product, to get out of my robe and into the sparkling dress my stylist has chosen for the night. It’s been a while since I attended an awards show, as my agent always manages to book me on projects that shot in the desert or the jungle somewhere, for months on end, disconnected from the rest of the world. I haven’t been home for more than a few weeks in almost a year.

In the car, I look over the speech I had scribbled down hastily earlier that day, just in case. My assistant, Wendy, weaves effortlessly through the traffic, assuring me over her shoulder that they’d be crazy not to let me win. Truthfully, I’m not exactly worried about winning. After going through awards season for a few years, I’ve learned not to get my hopes up too much, and just focus on having a good time. Plus, there is something else happening tonight that I am far more excited for. I lean forward and kiss Wendy on the cheek, thanking her as she pulls up in front of the red carpet. Immediately, I’m swept up in a flurry of flashing lights and shouts from photographers.

After I present my styling team’s collaborative handiwork from every angle, I make my way through the venue, stopping here and there to clasp hands and exchange niceties with my some of my colleagues, promising I’ll come find them later. I’m trying to find my way to the bar when I finally spot her, leaning against a pillar and engaged in a conversation she appears desperately to want to exit. The man across from her is short, older, stuffy-looking, and evidently oblivious to his counterpart’s discomfort.

She catches my eye then, looks at me from halfway across the crowded hall, past every other woman done up in similar extravagance, as if they aren’t there. She smiles for a split second, the bows her head again to continue her conversation. An idea forms in my mind as I march across the marble flooring, dodging waving arms with glasses or purses in hand. I close in on her, placing a hand on her bare forearm, tugging her away from the little man. 

“Spielberg wants you,” I say decidedly, not giving her time to react.

She gives the man an awkward little wave, and I pull her through throngs of people, trying to ignore the rush the feeling of her fingers in mine sends through me. I head for a side door I discovered last time, one that leads through a deserted hallway and then out into an alley. The heavy door clicks shut behind us, and I turn to look at her.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” she laughs, crossing her arms and shaking her head.

“Oh really? Your face was telling me all I needed to know.”

She lets her hands fall and I catch them, turning them over in mine.

“Cate,” I begin to say, suddenly too shy to look up.

She kisses me then, and I almost notice her deep, vivid scent more than her lips on mine. She’s gentle at first, but when I inch an arm around her waist to pull her closer she slides a hand up my neck, holding me there, claiming me. She tastes of champagne and mint, the flavors of an evening only just begun, and I know I’ll want to kiss her later, too, when we’ve both had meat and garlic and a dozen martinis between the both of us. 

Her mouth makes its way to my neck, and I let her continue for awhile, down into the deep v of my dress, before I finally pull away, gasping, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt.

“Cate,” I say again, breathing heavily this time. “What about Johnathan?”

“He’s back in England with the kids,” she explains quickly, moving in to kiss me again.

I placed a hand on her chest. “Have you left him?”

“I will, once I buy a house here.” There’s an unreadable expression on her face, but she didn’t seem sad or angry.

“So I might see you more than once a year?”

“Possibly.”

“You know I want to kill him for what he did to you.”

“I’m trying not to dwell on it, honestly. It’s done.”

I can’t blame her for her reticence. Had my husband gone to cheat on me with multiple mistresses for years on end under the guise of business trips, I too would dislike talking about it. Cate had spent most of their marriage passing up on opportunities so he could travel to conferences while she looked after their children, which made the betrayal even worse.

While I can’t imagine the pain she’d gone through, part of me is glad things ended between them. We were in love while I was in college, secretly, in the years where being out would have hurt both our careers. She just graduated and used to come to the coffeeshop I worked in. We spent two years sharing every free moment, which ended when she had to move for a job. We were in touch every few years, and now see each other every few months at events, but rarely speak, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves. 

“You’re right.” We both stand in silence for a minute, looking at each other. “Are you going to make me say it?” I finally sigh.

“Yes, I think so,” she giggles, knowing exactly what I mean.

“Fine.” I snake my arms around her neck, lean in and whisper into her ear, “I still think of you. I still feel the same.”

She rests her head where my neck meets my shoulder, wrapping her arms around me. “Will you come home with me tonight?”

We slip back inside a few minutes later, and it kills me to part from her for the rest of the evening. We’re seated at separate tables, so far from each other that I can’t see her, and the only thing she leaves me with is the memory of her hands imprinted on my body….


End file.
